9. Clara

9

CLARA

M y steps are confident, sure as I approach the podium. Camera flashes blind me as I adjust the microphone.

"Citizens of Evergreen Falls, I understand your fear. The police department is working tirelessly to apprehend this heinous murderer. We ask everyone to remain vigilant and follow the implemented curfew."

A reporter shoots up his hand. "Dr. Hart, sources say this is the work of a holiday-themed killer. Can you confirm?"

My throat tightens. "We cannot comment on the specifics of an ongoing investigation."

"But what about the Christmas connection?" Another voice calls out.

I grip the podium edges. "Speculation only creates panic. Please focus on staying safe and reporting suspicious activity."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. James catches my eye from the side of the stage, his face grim.

"That's all for now. Thank you." I step away from the barrage of questions.

James grabs my arm. "We need to go. Now."

In the squad car, sirens wailing, I clench my fists. "Where?"

"St. Mary's Church. Four victims."

My stomach drops. "Four?"

"All choir members."

The scene hits me like a punch to the gut. Four women in white robes arranged in a perfect circle, their hands reaching toward the center like twisted claws, their faces frozen in terror.

"Four calling birds," I whisper.

James kicks a nearby trash can. "Damn it! The killer is evolving.”

I can't tear my eyes away from their faces. These women were singing carols just yesterday. The killer's precision unnerves me. Each body is placed with mathematical accuracy, creating a grotesque art piece.

My hands shake as I pull on latex gloves. This isn't just murder anymore. It's a performance, and something about it feels terrifyingly familiar.

Memories crash over me like ice water while I stand among the choir members' bodies. My hands tremble as I remove my latex gloves.

"I need air," I mutter to James, stumbling toward the church entrance.

The cold December wind whips my face, but I barely feel it. Instead, I'm twelve again, walking home from school with my best friend, Rose. We'd been singing "Ring Around the Rosie"—her favorite nursery rhyme. She lived three houses down from mine.

The next morning, they found her. She was positioned in the center of Miller's Field, surrounded by a circle of roses. Her arms were outstretched like she was frozen mid-spin from our game. The killer had carved the nursery rhyme's lyrics into her skin.

Two weeks later, Tommy Fischer disappeared. They discovered him at the playground, hanging from the monkey bars. "London Bridge is Falling" played repeatedly from a portable radio beneath his feet.

Then came Jessica White. "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Her body was laid out in her family's sheep pen, surrounded by dead lambs.

The newspapers called him the Songbird Killer. He claimed three more victims before vanishing, leaving our small town traumatized and the cases unsolved.

I press my palm against the cold church wall. The similarities are striking—the theatrical staging, the musical connection, the attention to detail. But this is different. This killer is following a specific timeline—the twelve days of Christmas. We know when he'll strike next.

"Clara?" James's voice breaks through my memories. "You okay?"

I straighten my spine. “Have you pulled the files for The Songbird Killer?"

"What? That was twenty years ago."

"I know. But there's something about these scenes. The precision. The musical connection." I turn to face him. "What if he's back?”

James's face pales. He was there, too, back then. He lost his sister to the Songbird Killer.

"I'll have them pull everything," he says, his voice rough. "But Clara, are you sure you want to go down that road?"

"We don't have a choice, James. If we ignore the connection and it turns out to be him, or even a copycat, more people will die." I wrap my arms around myself, fighting off the December chill. "Think about it. Both killers chose music as their signature. Both created elaborate crime scenes. The positioning, the attention to detail..."

James runs his hands through his hair, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. "You're right. And if there's even a chance..." He pulls out his phone and dials the station. "Yeah, Martinez? I need all the case files from the Songbird murders. Everything we've got. Photos, witness statements, autopsy reports. I want the whole deal." He pauses, listening. "I don't care if they're in deep storage. Get them."

The church bells toll in the distance, making me jump. Four bodies. Four calling birds. The killer's pace is increasing.

"They'll have everything ready by the time we get there," James keys his radio. “This is Detective Marsden. The scene's secure. CSU can start processing." He turns to me. Let's head back to the station. We can set up in the conference room and spread everything out."

"Good. I want to compare the victims' profiles and see if we missed any overlap." I follow him to his car, my mind racing through the old case details. "The Songbird Killer targeted kids. This one's going after adults. If it is the same person, why change the victim type?"

"Maybe that's why we never caught him." James starts the engine. "He evolved, adapted. Changed his patterns to stay ahead."

"Or maybe it's someone who studied his methods. Someone who wanted to perfect them."

James pulls away from the curb, leaving the church and its four victims behind us. "Either way, those files might be our best shot at getting ahead of him."

I nod, watching the snow-covered streets pass by. Twenty year old cold case files might hold the key to stopping this Christmas nightmare.

James's hand brushes mine as he passes me a coffee from the console. "You holding up okay? I know these cases bring back memories."

"I'm managing." I take a sip, the warmth spreading through my chest.

"Remember when we used to get milkshakes at Dixon's after school? You always got strawberry."

I smile despite myself. "And you always stole my cherry."

"Hey, I earned those cherries. Who walked you home every day after the Songbird stuff started?"

His vigilant protection has stayed the same. Even now, his broad shoulders and steady presence remind me of safer times. James is everything I should want—strong, dependable, honest, the kind of man who'd never let anything bad happen to me.

My phone buzzes. A text from Silas:

Thinking of you.

My pulse quickens as I read those three simple words. Something dangerous about Silas draws me in—his eyes hold secrets, and his touch leaves me breathless. He's a puzzle I want to solve.

"Earth to Clara." James waves his hand in front of my face. "Lost you there for a minute."

"Sorry, just... processing the case."

"You know I'm here if you need anything, right? Not just as your partner on this case."

His genuine concern twists like a knife in my chest. James represents safety, stability, and everything I should desire.

"Thanks, James." I squeeze his arm, grateful for his steady presence as we pull into the precinct parking lot.

Martinez meets us at the door, arms loaded with dusty boxes. "Found everything we had on the Songbird cases. Some of these files are pretty fragile."

We commandeer the conference room, spreading decades-old crime scene photos across the table. My stomach churns at the familiar images. Rose in her ring of roses, Tommy suspended from the playground equipment, Jessica among the lambs.

"Look at this." I point to a detail in Rose’s autopsy report. "The cuts were made with surgical precision. Just like our Christmas victims."

James leans over my shoulder, his coffee breath warm against my neck. "Same depth, same angle. Could be the same type of blade."

"The positioning too." I lay out photos from both cases side by side. "Everything's mathematical. The bodies are arranged at perfect angles, equal distances apart."

"Obsessive-compulsive tendencies," James mutters, scribbling notes. "Needs control, order."

My fingers dance along the margin of a witness statement. Mrs. Peterson had reported seeing a man watching the playground for weeks before Tommy's death. The description was vague—tall, well-dressed, carried himself with confidence.

Hours blur together as we dig deeper into the files. My eyes burn from staring at grainy photographs and faded reports. Coffee cups pile up as we search for connections between past and present victims.

"The Songbird Killer stopped abruptly," I say, reviewing the timeline. "No warning, no escalation. Just... vanished."

"Maybe something spooked him." James stretches, his chair creaking. "Or someone almost caught him."

I spread out the current victim files next to the old ones. The similarities are undeniable—the attention to detail, the theatrical staging, the musical connection. But something feels different about these new murders—more personal, more urgent.

Martinez knocks on the door with fresh coffee and sandwiches. We've been at this for hours but can't stop now. Not when we might be close to understanding the connection between these cases.

I rub my tired eyes, staring at the gruesome photos spread across the conference room table. Twenty years separate these murders, but the precision, the artistry - it has to be connected. We're dealing with the same killer or someone who studied his methods intimately.

"James, look at these incision patterns." I tap the autopsy photos. "The depth, the angle—they're practically identical."

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and bolt upright. Six-thirty p.m.

"Shit." I start gathering my things.

The rustle of papers breaks our silence as James tears his attention from the reports. "What's wrong?"

"I have plans at eight." I hesitate, guilt gnawing at my stomach. "A dinner."

"Now? With everything going on?"

"I know, I know." I shove files into my bag. "But I can't cancel. I'll review these at home after."

"Clara-" James's disapproving tone makes me bristle.

"I'm not stepping away from the case. I need..." What? A break? A date with a mysterious stranger while bodies pile up? "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. We can cross-reference victim backgrounds then."

James watches me with those concerned eyes I've known since childhood. "Be careful out there. Killer's still loose."

"I will." I squeeze his shoulder as I pass. "Call me if anything breaks."

In my car, I check my makeup in the rearview mirror. Dark circles shadow my eyes from hours of staring at crime scene photos. I have ninety minutes to transform from exhausted investigator to dinner date material.

But as I drive home, the victims' faces flash through my mind. Rose in her ring of roses. The choir members' twisted hands. What kind of person am I, primping for a date while a killer stalks our town?

Then again, this dinner with Silas is what I need: a chance to clear my head and approach the case with fresh eyes tomorrow. At least, that's what I tell myself as I push down the accelerator.